Loula Moreno
Anders Breivik, the Norwegian who shot sixty-nine people to death and killed eight others with a bomb, said during his trial in Oslo, “In normal circumstances I’m a very nice person.” When I read that statement, I immediately thought of Darius Ardashir. In normal circumstances, when he’s not applying himself to my destruction, Darius Ardashir is very nice. Apart from me, perhaps his wife, and the women who have had the misfortune of becoming attached to him, nobody knows he’s a monster. The journalist interviewing me this morning is the kind of person who drinks her tea with careful movements while performing a series of irritating little rituals. Yesterday at around six in the evening, Darius Ardashir told me, I’ll call you in fifteen minutes. My cell phone’s on the table. No call, no text. It’s noon. I nearly went crazy during the night. The journalist says, you’ve just turned thirty, do you have a wish? — I have a hundred wishes. — Pick one. I say, I’d like to play a nun. Or have wavy hair. Appalling answers. I’m trying to be witty. I don’t know how to make simple, superficial small talk. — A nun! She produces a slightly twisted smile meant to affirm that I wouldn’t be the first choice for such a role. — Why not? — What’s your main fault? — I have a thousand faults. — The one you’d most like to get rid of. — My bad taste. — You have bad taste? In what? I say, men. And I immediately regret it. I always talk too much. A little girl, surely a schoolchild, is cleaning the table next to us. She moves the match holder, she places the pastries menu on another table, she wipes the waxed wood with a damp cloth, whirling her hand in deft, efficient circles; then she puts everything back where it was and goes away. From where I’m sitting, I can see her go to the bar and ask for another assignment. The real waitress gives her a tray of advertising cards folded in the shape of tents and points her to some empty tables. The young girl sets about putting a card next to the potted violet on each table. I love her seriousness. The journalist asks, do you prefer a certain type of man? I hear myself reply, I prefer the dangerous, irrational type. I filter that through a gurgle of laughter and say, I’m talking nonsense, Madame, please don’t write that. — What a pity. — I’m not attracted by smooth, handsome guys, the Mad Men type, I like the little, dented ones, the kind that look bad-tempered and don’t talk much. I could continue banging on like this, but I choke on an olive pit. I say, don’t write down any of that. — I’ve already written it down. — Then don’t publish it. Nobody’s interested in that. —Au contraire. — I really don’t want to talk about myself that way. — Our readers will be honored. You’re giving them a gift. She readjusts her skirt under her bottom and asks for more hot water for her tea. I finish the olives and order a second glass of vodka. I let myself be reeled in, I have no authority over these people. The journalist asks me if I have a cold. No, I say, why? She finds my voice deeper in real life. She says I have bedroom intonations. I laugh stupidly. She thinks she’s flattering me with that idiotic expression. My cell phone’s still on the table, and still not giving any sign of life. None. Not one. The little girl is calmly walking back and forth among the sofas, her chin thrust well forward. — Loula Moreno, where does that come from? It’s not your real name, is it? — I took it from a song by Charlie Odine …
Loula waits for her big day to come / In some drab impresario’s bed, / Chews empty promises like gum, / With dreams of applause in her head … —So does the big day come? — In the song? No. — Has it come for you? — Not for me either. I finish my vodka and laugh. It’s wonderful that we can laugh. Laughter’s like a joker. It works however you play it. The young girl’s leaving. She’s become a child again, with her raincoat and her schoolbag. At the moment when she disappears outside the glass-paned wooden door, I see Darius Ardashir come in. I knew he could sometimes be found in this bar. To tell the truth, I even chose the place deliberately, in the infinitesimal hope of seeing him. But Darius Ardashir isn’t with his usual co-conspirators in their dark suits and ties (I’ve never understood exactly what it is that he does, he’s the type of guy whose name is linked to politics one day and the next to an industrial group or an arms sale). He’s with a woman. I empty my glass in one gulp, igniting my throat. I’m not used to drinking. The woman is tall, with a classic look to her and her hair in a blond chignon. Darius Ardashir guides her to two armchairs in the corner near the piano. His hair’s wet. He’s got his hand on the small of her back. I fail to hear the journalist’s question. I say, I beg your pardon, I didn’t get that. I raise my glass to a waiter and order another vodka. I say to the journalist, it wakes me up, I didn’t get much sleep last night. I always have to justify myself. It’s ridiculous. I’m thirty years old, I’m famous, I can dance on any precipice. Darius Ardashir’s trying to close a little printed umbrella. He fights with the struts, brings no intelligence to the effort, and ends up crushing the thing together with brute force and then wrapping the fabric around the frame as best he can. The woman laughs. This spectacle is killing me. The journalist says, do you feel nostalgia for your childhood? By the way she’s bending toward me, as one does with deaf people, I gather she must have asked me that question at least once already. Ah no, not at all, I say, I didn’t like childhood, I wanted to be a grown-up. She leans even farther forward and says something I can’t make out. I seize my cell phone, get up, and say, excuse me for a second. I head for the ladies’ room as discreetly as possible, swaying a little because of the vodka. I look at myself in the mirror. I’m pale, I find the circles under my eyes a nice touch. I’m an attractive girl. I write a text on my phone, “I see you,” and send it to Darius Ardashir. A few days ago, I told him I was his slave, I said I wanted him to keep me on a leash. Darius Ardashir answered that he didn’t like encumbrances. Even a little suitcase disturbed him, he said. I return to the dining room carelessly. I don’t look toward the piano. When the journalist sees me coming back, her face lights up with a practically maternal glow. She says, can we continue? I say yes and sit down. Darius Ardashir has surely received my message, I see him absorbed by his cell phone. I arch my back and stretch my swanlike neck. I must absolutely avoid looking in his direction. The journalist rummages in her notes and says, you said … —My God. — You said, men are love’s guests. — I said that? Me? — Yes. — Not bad. — Can you expand on it? I say, will I get fussed at if I smoke? I’m afraid so, she says. My cell phone lights up. Darius A. is responding to my text: “Hey, sexy.” I turn around. Darius Ardashir is ordering drinks. He’s wearing a brown jacket over a beige shirt, the blond woman’s in love with him, you can see that from miles away. Hey, sexy, as if nothing’s going on. Darius Ardashir is a genius of the pure present. The night erases all traces of the previous day, and words start bouncing around again, as light as helium balloons. I text him: “Who is she?” I regret the text at once. I write, “No, I don’t give a shit,” but luckily I delete it. The journalist sighs and settles against the back of her armchair. I write, “We were supposed to have dinner last night, right?” I delete, delete. Reproaches make men take to their heels like sprinters. In the beginning, Darius Ardashir told me, I love you with my head, with my heart, and with my cock. I repeated that sentence to Rémi Grobe, my best friend, and he said, a poet, this guy of yours, I’m going to give that a try, there are some dopes it might work on. It works mighty well on me. I have no desire to hear music that’s too subtle. I say to the journalist, what were we talking about? She shakes her head, she’s no longer sure herself. My own head is spinning. I wave the waiter over and ask him to bring us more salted nuts, with extra cashews. I’m not going to leave that Who is she? hanging out there all by itself, it’s too weak. Especially since he’s not answering. I write, “Tell her you only like beginnings.” That’s excellent. I’m pressing send. No, I’m not pressing send. I can do better. I call the waiter over once again. He arrives with potato chips and nuts, a goodly portion of them cashews. I ask him for a piece of paper. I say to the journalist, excuse me, things are a little disjointed this morning. She raises a limp hand in a gesture of complete dejection. I don’t have the time to be embarrassed. The waiter brings me a big sheet of typing paper. I ask him to wait. I write my sentence on the top part of the page and fold it with care. I ask the waiter to deliver the note discreetly, without disclosing its source, to the man in the brown jacket sitting next to the piano. The waiter says in a frightfully clear voice, Monsieur Ardashir? I flutter my eyelids in confirmation. He goes away. I fall on the mixed pistachios and cashews. I absolutely must not look at what’s going on beside the piano. The journalist has roused herself from her torpor, taken off her eyeglasses, and stored them in their case. Now she’s starting to put away her documents. I can’t be abandoned there, not right away. I say to her, you know, I feel old. One doesn’t feel young at thirty. Last night I couldn’t sleep, and I read Cesare Pavese’s journal. Do you know it? It’s on my night table. Reading sad things is good for you. In one passage, he says, “Madmen and wretches have all been children, they played as you did, they believed something beautiful was waiting for them.” Don’t write this, but I’ve thought for a long time I wouldn’t be anything more than a shooting star in this profession. The journalist looks at me nervously. She’s nice, poor thing. The waiter comes back with the folded paper. I’m trembling. I keep it in my hand for a moment before unfolding it. There’s what I wrote at the top, “Tell her you only like beginnings,” and at the bottom, in a fine, black hand, he’s written, “Not always”. Nothing else. No period. To whom do those words refer? To me? To his wife? I turn my head toward the piano corner. Darius Ardashir and the woman are in a very good mood. The journalist leans toward me and says, something beautiful was waiting for you, Loula.